Crimson on White
by Rae TB
Summary: Crimson on white...no one can possibly imagine what a truly beautiful blessing it is...Brooklyn centric self-harm fic.


I'M BACK!

Did ya' miss me?

Let's PRETEND you did. XD; Anyway...this is a fic based upon my life; it focuses entirely on something I used to do. Hurt myself. Intentionally slash my skin to release pain...If this bothers you, TURN BACK **_NOW_**! By posting this up, I'm revealing something personal that used to control my life...please respect that, even if you don't approve of it. Also, Brooklyn is the main character, so this is all about him and his struggle with it. Yes, I am aware I am corrupting a children's cartoon character. Deal with it.

* * *

Crimson on white.

No one can imagine what a truly beautiful blessing it is: the thrill, the rush, the invigoration brought with every slash of the chilling razorblade. It's an intrapersonal experience like no other. It's a sharp intake, a quick stop, and a sudden drop into a black abyss with no return. There's no ground to catch my plunge, there's no breeze to caress my face or cradle my body as I make my descent in a free fall of lost faith. Every mark made onto my flesh is an expression of my sorrow, a cry for attention, a scream for help into the darkness of life, all of which go unseen, and unheard. Even I cannot hear my own shouts. The only sound that meets my ears is silence so loud, it's deafening.

Every cutting session starts out the same. However, I don't always do it for the same reason. Sometimes, there is no reason, just a hurt so bad, an agony that runs so deeply that I see no other way. The fundamental and underlying origins for it are quite simple, however. Self hatred, the desire to prove I can feel, to relieve and change emotional pain to physical pain I can handle, to release tension, and to have some control over my life are all reasons. It doesn't hurt as much as some people would think it would. There's a sharp sting at first – a break in the ice surrounding my heart, a collapse of the tension I had been feeling, and then immediate relief. I had dried up all my tears years ago - this was all I had left to show I wasn't some heartless monster. This was all I had ever really had. The razor never judged me, never deemed me to be some wrong freak, it just allowed me to destroy myself slowly before letting me on my way, no questions asked.

To me, self harm is like a sacred ritual. It always begins by picking up the plastic part of a shaver, and squeezing the easy grip handle until my knuckles turn white. I take a minute to gaze down on the shimmering metal of the sharp edges, running the tips of my finger over them in a mix of fascination and appreciation. The sensation of skin against metal always causes a shiver to run through my spine, the tension building toward the inevitable breaking point as my breathing picks up. The air tends to grow thick and press in around me as my inner turmoil runs rampant. Once the first contact is made, I'm lost to the world and a trance overtakes me. I find myself driven by an invisible bloodlust and I am thrown out of my body. I become an outsider looking in, watching on in horror as I destroy the shell that houses my soul. All it takes is one slice in my flesh, one scratch on the surface to send me over the edge and soon I repeat the motion.

Left to right.

Right to left.

Back to front.

Front to back.

The chilling material against my heated flesh as I apply pressure, gently at first before gradually adding to the pain is enough to overwhelm my senses. I can smell the heavy stench of my own blood. I can taste the thick red substance through its aroma. I can feel the throb in my arm that my masochistic actions have caused. A steady stream of deep red flows out from my pale skin as the grooves of the blade dig into me, the liquid trickling downward. My masks have fallen away - everything has except for me and the razor. I'm vulnerable now, overcome by crimson on white and the emotions surfacing. The feelings of anger, hurt, and emptiness are blending as one and becoming a murky wave of sentiment that threatens to crash down upon me and drown me deep within its depths. Blood tumbles from my arm, the vibrant red hitting the pale white floor and I am overcome once more.

Crimson on white.

No one can possibly imagine what a truly beautiful blessing it is.

A wry smile spreads across my features as I take the time to admire the marks left from previous moments of weakness. My fingernails trace scars from long ago, past hurt that drove me to do the unforgivable. The slightly darker marks litter my skin and mar it with angry gashes. Each puts my heart on display for all to see, showcasing my private dilemmas with relish.

The razor is my friend, but my scars are my enemy.

Their very existence mocks me. While the razor relieves my pain, the scars amplify it. How terribly ironic it is that the razor is the thing to cause my scars. How terrible ironic it is that the thing I call my friend is also my master, using me for its sick enjoyment. I want to abandon it, to spread my wings and soar alone.

But I need it.

It's the wind beneath me, what keeps me from crashing and burning, but at the same time I know it will lead to just that someday. I have depended upon self-harm for so long that I have forgotten what it is like without it. Ever since the justice five tournament had ended, I had been totally lost, without any clear purpose or reason. Then I had discovered this, and life had light again, life had _meaning_ again.

"Brooklyn?" a voice calls, resonating throughout the empty hallway as my head snaps up. My heartbeat picks up and I can hear it pounding against my ribcage as I grip my chest, my warm breath coming out in short gasps.

It was Garland...

Garland would discover my secret.

Garland would make me stop the one thing that made me whole again.

Garland would ruin everything.

His footsteps near and with every thud his foot made against the ground, my pulse seems to quicken. For a second I stand transfixed, unable to gather myself and do what needs to be done. My teal eyes search the room frantically and without even knowing it, I dive forward grabbing all evidence of my deeds and hiding it. My gaze turns to my wounds as I roll down my sleeves. It's the middle of summer, but ever since I started harming myself, I have never worn short sleeves. The door creaks open and I put myself together just in time to make my performance believable.

"Hey Brook...you okay?...You've been in here for a while..." Garland trails leaning against the doorframe as I smile, my masks appearing once more.

"Yeah, yeah...don't worry about it, I'm fine," I state waving him off.

"Hmm...well...is everything alright then?" the silver haired boy asks with a raised brow. His blue eyes bore into me with such intensity I can feel myself cracking, but my resolve stays firm.

"Yeah, everything is fine...I just had a bad day is all..." I shrug lightly watching relief wash through him. How blind he is...How blissfully naive he is.

"Don't worry buddy, tomorrow will be better," Garland grins patting my back as I smile weakly. "Anyway, come on...I want to get in another match with you!" he smirks turning to leave.

"Yeah..." I whisper running my fingers over my fresh cuts as he walked out of the room, my legs forcing me to follow half heartedly. "Tomorrow..." I choke out, my eyes trained upon the angry wounds thatI had caused as I stopped following. The cuts were still fresh, the bright red tint a perfect match to my emotions. A sigh escapes my parched lips as I fight back the tears that had seemingly forsaken me up until this point. The water droplets burned beneath the surface, blurring my vision slightly.

Crimson on white.

No one can possibly imagine what a truly horrid curse it is.


End file.
